


Royal Studbooks

by coffeeincluded



Series: The Beasts Within [7]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Crests (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Daemons, From a societal standpoint, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Teenagers Making Bad Decisions Because They're Teenagers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22412908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeincluded/pseuds/coffeeincluded
Summary: It's nothing more than a glorified breeding program. But what happens when you treatpeoplelike breeding stock?Or: Dorothea and Ingrid process the fallout of Ingrid's latest proposal. Sylvain processes what happened in Conand Tower. They're more connected than you might initially think.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Dorothea Arnault & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: The Beasts Within [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543501
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	Royal Studbooks

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Chapter 11 of Who We Are: Miklan, before the scene where Sylvain gets drunker and staggers into town. 
> 
> I wanted to get this up early but my body decided that since this is my one day off I should spend most of it curled up sick in bed. I hope this is still good; I did enjoy the conversation at the end and I hope you do too!
> 
> Ingrid's entire paralogue is really disturbing when you think about the implications. 
> 
> Content warnings: Discussions of the glorified breeding program that is the crest system, sexual assault and, marital rape. 
> 
> As always, please read, comment if you wish, and enjoy!

The sun had set hours ago, but Ingrid, Dorothea, and Ignatz still sat around the library table. Thankfully Tomas was giving them the privacy they needed, merely asked that they keep to one corner and clean up when they were done. Albarrog was content to lie on the ground, but where Calphour was able to perch on Dorothea’s shoulders. Mistella whined and scratched at Ignatz’s legs until he gave in and placed his daemon on the table. She spread out some of the files and snarled at those last few damning documents.

“I can’t believe it,” he muttered. He was the only one speaking, Dorothea’s eyes were growing wider with every passing moment and Ingrid? Ingrid looked like she had just taken a warhammer to the face. This man, this monster, her father arranged for her to be married to him?! Yes, parents were supposed to decide what was best for their children—it was why he was here in the Academy and not exploring the wilds of Fodlan with little more than paintbrush and canvas—but how could this be best for anyone?

“All of these payments come from Gloucester territory,” Mist explained, pawing at the bank statements. “The banks keep their own copies; that’s how we got these.”

“And this is a monster training company,” Calphour added, fluttering down to a signature on a contract. “The Opera Company deals with them sometimes, for the really wild shows.”

Albarrog looked like he was about to devour someone whole. “So he hired monsters from the company, quite possibly on behalf of Count Gloucester himself, and…”

“And set them on merchants traveling from Gloucester to Riegan territories.” Ignatz’s voice was flat, but Mist’s had settled into a low constant snarl. Her hair stood straight on end, and his hands were curled into fists. So were Dorothea and Ingrid’s. “He’s putting my parents and brother and other merchants in danger. He’s responsible for Raphael’s parents’ getting killed.”

“We need to show this to my father,” Ingrid growled. “There’s no way he’ll go through with the proposal after this.” She was shaking.

Dorothea placed a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder; Cal landed on Alba’s snout. Ignatz stood back; this wasn’t his place. They just needed him for the financial parts of this. “Iggy, are you coming? We might need your testimony here.”

“Um, I, um…” That was a good point, but still, this was Ingrid’s issue, and Dorothea was her friend. He barely knew them. But this…

“Mistella,” Albarrog’s voice was unnervingly soft for an alligator daemon. “This is putting your family in danger too, right? So this involves you.”

Ignatz and Mist looked at each other. “I think we should invite Raphael along,” he said. “They were his parents. And…Lorenz too. He needs to know.”

“Ingrid? Will you be okay with that?” Oh, he wasn’t overstepping his bounds, was here? There you go again Ignatz, getting in other peoples’ way...

But Ingrid nodded. “Like it or not, they’re involved too.”

* * *

In retrospect, bringing the three Golden Deer students along had been an excellent idea.

Dorothea hadn’t thought that on the way to Ingrid’s estate; in fact, she had half a mind to pop off Cal’s head for not protesting more fervently. Lorenz was one of the most insufferable twits she had ever had the misfortune to meet, and she was the Mystical Songstress! He insisted on riding his daemon all the way to the estate, and _she_ insisted on wearing this ridiculous helmet with oversized golden antlers! Not like Dorothea expected anything less from the vainglorious fop who acted like he was the Goddess’s gift to the nobility. She’d listened to far too many women vent about his… _advances_ —interrogations more like—and complete inability to fuck off and leave them alone. And yet he treated her as though she was nothing more than what his ilk called “the help,” who were, of course, little more than moving furniture to the nobility.

In a way, Lorenz was even worse than Ferdinand. While Ferdie was an idiot with his head rammed firmly up his ass all the way to his shoulders, he…didn’t seem to be actively malicious, Dorothea grudgingly admitted. Lorenz, on the other hand? Lorenz seemed to be completely incapable of conceiving that he was an asshole, or that other people were, you know, people!

Which is part of why she was so surprised to see Lorenz speak with Ignatz with respect and admiration for his artistic skills. Even though Ignatz was a commoner—albeit a wealthy one—Lorenz looked him in the eye and talked the fine arts with him as though the anxious young man were a fellow peer. Vincatel even looked Mistella in the eye instead of over the spaniel daemon’s head!

“But in a way, that makes Lorenz even worse,” Cal muttered into her as she glared Lightning at the back of Lorenz and Vinca. “I mean, look at that!” He gestured with a wing at Vinca, who had actually slowed down so Ignatz could keep up without breaking into a sprint. “Clearly, he’s capable of actually being a gentleman and considerate of others. Which means that _he chooses not to be_ around women.”

“He chooses to view women only in terms of status and how they can benefit him, only sees them as an extension of himself and not actual people.” And it was an open question as to how much Lorenz saw commoners like herself as actual people. She remembered Mercedes saying that the noble bastard wouldn’t even look her in the eye. Absolutely disgusting.

 _“Sure we may be glorified gutter trash, but for him to treat us like that?!”_ Cal growled across their bond.

 _“He’s casually classist, misogynist, and a billion other -ists.”_ Oh, how she wished she could put him in his place. A few cutting words and he’d probably either run home crying or lash out with the most vile insults in an attempt to salve his wounded ego. But this wasn’t the time, and unfortunately they needed him. Or rather, his status.

Because the moment that the merchant—who was negotiating the marriage contract with Count Galatea—saw Ingrid, and Lorenz, and everyone else, and the look of apoplectic rage on her face, he took off running. He bought himself time as Ingrid and Dorothea and everyone else presented the evidence to her father and watched his face slowly turn ashen. By the time they caught up to him, he was deep in the equally ashen and superheated wasteland that was Ailell. The air was hot and choking, with thick jets of sulfurous smoke shooting out from the cracked and bleeding ground at random intervals. The heat blocked their path, made it difficult to move forward, and the merchant had hired mercenaries.

“So, he intends to kill us, and hide the evidence,” Dorothea laughed nervously as she electrocuted a charging bandit. The lightning danced through her veins, left her fingertips numb. The mercenary screamed, twitched, and died. Ingrid raced ahead, Albarrog strapped to the back of her pegasus with the help of a custom-made saddle. Vincatel was the only one fast enough to keep up; as much as Dorothea hated it she let Lorenz keep up and cover her. She had no other choice.

They won, eventually. Ailell was Ingrid’s backyard. And none of them were going to let that monster take her.

It was Raphael who grabbed the merchant by the lapels and held him up against the rocks for Ingrid to hold a lance to his throat; it was Oakley who held his struggling mallard daemon in her mouth. Away from Albarrog’s waiting maw.

“This fucking bastard just takes and takes and takes. How many people have already died because of him? How many peoples’ lives have been ruined because of this piece of filth?!” Dorothea snarled. Her hands crackled with restrained magic that reflected in Cal’s eyes. The merchant babbled pleas for mercy, his throat bobbing against the sharp point of Ingrid’s lance. Ignatz had an arrow nocked, drawn, and ready to loose. Lorenz stood aside and…watched. Vinca’s antlered helm reflected gold in the lights of the fires of Ailell.

Ingrid pressed the lance a little deeper in his throat. Not enough to bleed, but enough to leave a small indent. “You would have made me marry you, and then what?” Behind her, Alba tensed his limbs, readied to strike at the parts of that mallard daemon that dangled from Oakley’s mouth. The retriever daemon backed off, and Raphael turned to Ingrid with tear-streaked eyes.

“Ingrid, don’t.”

“Raphael, what are you talking about? This man is the reason that—”

“I know!” He pressed the merchant against the wall a little harder, and he whimpered. “I know. But killing him here won’t solve anything. It’ll just make you feel better for a little while.”

Dorothea lowered her hand and waited to see what Raphael was going to say next. But it was Lorenz who spoke up, and it was Vinca who broke off from the arrogant noble to lean against Albarrog.

“I’ll take him. If the financial documents come from our territory then that’s where he should stand trial.”

Raphael held him in a lock until they all eventually agreed to do just that. 

* * *

This uniform was a complete loss for anything other than stable duty, or maybe weeding. It was scorched, and stank of sulfur right down to the seams. Cal’s little golden crest was darkened with soot; Albarrog winced with every step. She and Ingrid both stank of soot and sweat and more than a little blood.

Ingrid hadn’t spoken since they returned to the monastery. Actually, she barely spoke at all since leaving the estate. When they returned to Ingrid’s estate, her father swept her up in a bone-crushing hug, sobbed apologies into shoulder. Ingrid raised a hesitant hand up to his back. But that was all. Albarrog remained by her side, and it was her father’s bullfrog daemon who had to close the gap.

“We should go,” Cal whispered. Whatever Ingrid had to say to her father about selling her off to that beast of a man, whatever he had to say to her in turn, it wasn’t their place. Not here, and not now. Lorenz, Ignatz, and Raphael had already made themselves scarce.

Dorothea sat on one of the stone benches lining the foyer. The Galatea manor was large and stately, with wide sweeping stone arches and lots of open space. Ingrid had several siblings, and they all loved each other. She could close her eyes and imagine the laughter of Ingrid and her rothers and sisters as they chased each other down the hallways, their footsteps echoing against the stone. She opened her eyes. The foyer was heavily shadowed, illuminated by not-quite-enough lights (oil was expensive). Small amounts of dust gathered in the corners and between the stones (servants were expensive, especially if you treated them right). The carpets and tapestries were somewhat thin and threadbare at the edges, with very little purple and blue (some of the most expensive dyes).

She would have given anything to grow up as a chambermaid here rather than scrounging for scraps in the gutters of Enbarr. 

“There had to have been another way,” Dorothea muttered.

These were the thoughts that swam through her head as they stepped back into the quiet and safe grounds of the monastery. That, and the rage.

Her dear friend had almost been lost to that beast, and she would have never seen her again. And she knew what Ingrid would have been subjected to, all for the purpose of producing a crest baby. Ingrid knew it too, knew it from the way she gripped her family’s Relic, or the way the moon reflected in Alba’s eyes and teeth.

Ingrid had barely put her pegasus back in the stall when Dorothea took her by the hand and led her to the infirmary. “What are you doing, Dorothea? I’m fine.” Her gaze slid past the songstress.

“Ingrid, I need a fucking drink. You need a fucking drink.”

“What?!” She jerked her hand back. “Dorothea, I am not getting drunk to deal with what just happened!”

Dorothea folded her arms. “Yes you are. We need to talk about what just happened and let loose and relax and alcohol is a good way to do that. And look how wound up you are! You need to let that go a bit.”

“This is a really bad idea,” Albarrog muttered, but he let Dorothea drag Ingrid along anyway.

Manuela’s handle of vodka was right where Dorothea knew it would be. She swiped it from the drawer and replaced it with a small satchel of money and a handwritten note. _Sorry, but we had to borrow this. Emergency guy trouble. Love, your favorite little songbird._ She left no signature, but Calphour did dip his foot in ink and press it against the page. They ran to Ingrid's room without stopping, sat on the floor, and got to drinking. 

It took two and a half drinks and a shoulder massage for the tension in Ingrid’s shoulders to slacken. The pleasant fog of inebriation was starting to blur the edges of Dorothea’s vision when she moved too quickly and forced Cal to the ground instead of wobbling and possibly crashing into walls. Ingrid got up to pee; while she was gone Dorothea flopped against the floor and stared up at the ceiling. Even the ceiling of this dormitory was freshly-painted, with not a crack in sight.

“They all live in a bubble,” Cal said, flopped on the ground beside her, wings outstretched. Sure not all of them are as insufferable as Ferdie and Lorenz, and some of them live closer to the edge of it than most, but they all grew up in a bubble of material comfort. And they could have had so much more than that.”

Ingrid, Bernadetta, probably Sylvain if she was being honest. The nobles had a thousand tiny gardens of paradise for them and their families, and they turned each one into their own personal Ailell. What was wrong with the nobility?!

The sound of an extra set of clomping footsteps drew Dorothea’s attention. She rolled over to the open door to see Sylvain leaning against the door, Zep rubbing up against Alba in a…actually not flirtatious at all way. He looked far too casual when leaning against the door, with a too-broad smile on his face.

“Guess who’s an only child and the heir of Gautier?! It’s my dream come true!”

So they had killed Miklan. Dorothea scrambled to her feet just as Ingrid murmured her apologies. Zep stepped back from Alba’s approach, but then let the alligator daemon touch her.

Dorothea propped herself up on folded arms. “Sylvain? You’re not here to celebrate your ‘ascension’ to Margrave, are you?”

Normally Sylvain would respond with his own barbed flirts, maybe offer for her to sit on his face (which she would brush off), and they would begin their usual sharp and aggressive dance. But this time Sylvain’s eyes widened and he grabbed Ingrid by the shoulders. She yelped and moved to push him off but stopped when she saw the look on his face and the way Zep ran past her to hiss at that lance.

“Ingrid, that’s Luin, isn’t it? You didn’t let Dorothea or Calphour anywhere near that thing, did you?!”

“Sylvain, of course I didn’t. What is going on?”

His breath was harsh and ragged, like he had just run a marathon. Sylvain stared at Dorothea, dragging his fingertips through his hair as he tried to quell his hyperventilation. Zep’s eyes were fixed on Cal.

Eventually they brought him inside. And he told them what happened in Conand Tower. All of it.

Dorothea could feel the blood drain from her face, could feel her heart beat flutter high and weak and sick with Cal pressed as close to it as he could be. Ingrid had thrown her arms around Alba, and Sylvain dug his fingers in Zep’s fur with one hand as he spoke. The other was busy tilting that handle of vodka down his throat. The Lance of Ruin _ate_ Miklan’s daemon?! That’s what Hero’s Relics did? What kind of heroic weapon did something as horrific as that?

“That sounds like a divine retribution sort of thing in the most maudlin operas,” Dorothea whimpered. She wasn’t drunk enough to deal with this. The vodka burned as it ran down her throat. But it fuzzed the edges of those horrible mental images, and that was enough.

“And I don’t even think my parents would care! They didn’t give a shit about Miklan once I was born because I have a crest and he didn’t, and that made him jealous enough to want to kill me!”

“I can’t even blame him that much,” Zep slurred, staring at Luin. “I mean, he was a horrible fucking piece of shit and the world is better off without him, but what if our roles were switched? What if he were the heir with the crest and I had nothing? Would he be the golden child and I be the asshole?”

Alba thumped his tail against the floor. “Zep, don’t say things like that—”

“—THAT’S WHAT WE ARE!” Vodka sloshed from Sylvain’s flash. “That’s all we are to the nobles, that’s all you are to your family Ingrid. Don’t deny it; you saw what was more important to your family today.”

Dorothea’s hand tightened on Ingrid’s suddenly-tense shoulder. “My father—”

“Loves you a lot more than mine, I’m sure, but he’s still a slave to the system. How long did it take you guys to find out what this merchant guy was really like? All he had to do was flash a big sack of gold before your family and they suddenly stopped digging until they had to. You’re nothing more than a broodmare at auction, Ingrid.” Another long drink. “And I’m just a glorified studhorse.”

Her “father,” only in the sense that he conceived her, was much the same. Just wanted a crest baby. And when she was born without one, well…her mom did the best she could. But it was cold on the streets of Enbarr in winter, and there was no reliable place for clean water. Her father didn’t even recognize her at the opera all those years later. Just saw her as another pretty little thing to fuck a crest baby into.

Ingrid and Sylvain were still talking, their words slurred together as Sylvain continued his drunken rant. “Fuck, I don’t even know if my mom _wanted_ my dad to, you know, make me. FUCK! That’s all we are and that’s all we’ll ever be. They don’t care about your determination and drive, Ingrid. Actually they’d probably hate it. You’re nothing more than a walking incubator, and they don’t want those thinking for themselves. And me? They don’t care about my dashing good looks or brain either. I’m just half a shot glass of warm wet nothing.”

He and Zep stared into the flash, watched the liquid slosh back and forth. “Sure, the goddess and saints may have bestowed crests in the first place, but it was our ancestors who created this glorified breeding program and royal studbooks, and it was our ancestors who shackled themselves and all their descendants to it. There was no divine commandment, no edict from on high. We did this to ourselves.”

“So why can’t we undo it?”

Sylvain simply laughed, rough and bitter and empty. “You really think that’s what’s going to happen? You really think the other nobles will let us? We’ll probably end up in arranged marriages that are loveless at absolute best, pump out crest babies, and treat those without like the failures society says they are. And then they’ll grow up and do the same. And this whole fucking continent will just lurch on like that until the Goddess returns and saves us from ourselves. Or there’s a massive peasant revolt and we all end up with our heads on pikes. Either way.” He took another drink, which probably wasn’t a very good idea.

“That’s uh, wow Sylvain, that’s dark.” Ingrid pulled the flask from Sylvain’s hands with the universal glare of _I think you’ve had enough_. That really was…sure, Sylvain only _seemed_ okay, but wow that was aggressively bleak.

“Hey, gimme that flask!” He groped at empty air. Ingrid was slightly faster than him and shoved the flask down her blouse where even Sylvain wouldn’t dare reach.

What would she do? Sure she was a coward at the end of the day, but…what would she do? Fight? Run away? Lie down and wait to die? She wouldn’t do the last one again. Came far too close in her childhood to ever go back. And where would she run? Nowhere but Brigid (why Brigid?) came to mind.

But fighting? For what? A corrupt church? Even more corrupt nobles?

What was there to believe in? Certainly not herself, but what was there to believe in?

“Edie’s starting a, well I guess it’s a club,” Cal peeped up from where he was nestled between her breasts, next to warm steady beat of her heart. “She’s calling it a diplomatic thing but really I think it’s going to be more Fuck Crests than anything else. I think she’d want to hear your story.”

Ingrid and Sylvain stared at her and oh.

“I…I’ll think about it,” Ingrid said, and she could hear the struggle to have her words make sense through the inebriation. Sylvain ran a hand down the side of his face. Their daemons appeared to be having some quiet conversation.

“Sure, if you guys don’t get strung up for heresy, I’ll check it out.”

It wasn’t a no. And sure, this would probably end terribly, but it was _something._ Edie was doing something. Petra was a safe place. Byleth cared. Her classmates cared.

Maybe that was something to believe in.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone else headcanon the "blood money" that the mystery merchant got as coming from setting monsters on the traders as per Ignatz and Raphael's paralogue? 
> 
> Everything else here is either canon or extrapolated, and not even excessively so. This was heavy to write as much as I enjoyed it. I hope you all did too.
> 
> Tomorrow I shall begin work on the fully-outlined next chapter of Who We Are, which will be titled _The Fuck Crests Club._ And of course the weekly drabble will be coming some time after work. See you all soon!


End file.
